


Why Me?

by panda_shi



Series: Oh Shit [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Heartbreak, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inappropriate Behavior, M/M, Magic, Past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Portals, Protective Steve Rogers, References to Depression, Regret, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: It's apparently against the bro-code to take your best-friend's love; to be fair, Bucky simply wants to put a lid on his attraction, move on and not step on anyone's toes. But apparently, Bucky discovers that no matter how hard you try to ignore the thing you want the most, it will always find its way back to you. And now he had to somehow get himself involved with a truth spell and well. Fuck.ON HOLD/HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am my own Beta. Possibly could have missed some shitty typos.

 

Bucky is pretty sure that his heart had ended up somewhere between the sliding glass doorway of the common area and somewhere between his feet, possibly in a puddle of red mush and diseased, evil and HYDRA infested black matter. He is also sure that his digestive system had a high probability of being a part of said mush, along with whatever intelligence or basic human speech that had once upon a time nestled cozily and snugly in his brain. He is still staring at the little steel fifteen by twenty-three box with a garish magenta and gold striped stick-on bow that he is sure he had seen being sold at corner stores for a few cents. It’s a light box, possibly under four pounds, and when he gives it a discreet shake, he knows that its contents are compactly packed.

And the person who had given him that box – well, he is honestly Bucky’s greatest problem and dilemma.

Tony is standing before him, hands in the pockets of his denim, in a t-shirt and a bomber jacket, rose tinted glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and looking at him with his eyebrows raised up to his hairline, like he’s waiting for a response.

Which Bucky really needs to cough up somehow.

Like, _now_.

But like the rest of his major organs that is lying on the floor like the useless proverbial puddle, apparently, his vocal chords had decided to join the idiot-parade-of-useless on said floor.

The smartest thing to do is to open the box. So Bucky begins to do that, wondering not for the first time since that entire evening had kicked off, just _what_ had possessed his teammates to throw him a thirty-eight-days late birthday party at ten in the freaking evening. They had just returned from a gruelling mission earlier that afternoon; he had been under the impression that everyone had wanted to fuck off and be anti-social for the rest of the evening. So imagine his surprise when Vision had come to look for him – of _all_ people – and had asked him very politely to come to the common room immediately because they had a bit of a _situation_ (Vision’s tone had _emphasized_ on the word _situation)_. Bucky had bolted up from where he had been lying on his bed and rushed down with Vision on his heels, only to have confetti pop over his head and the entire chorus a happy birthday throw at his face; Wanda had then approached him and placed a garishly yellow birthday hat on his head. It had taken him exactly three seconds to realize how rushed and not-so-put-together everything had been, from the stack of pizza boxes, to the three tiered caked, the bucket of chicken nuggets, hotdogs, _several_ packs of beer and some other array of fast food. The team looked like they had raided the local Pizza Hut and McDonalds from the amount of crap that is stacked on the open kitchen counter.

There are balloons everywhere and while Bucky understands that today is probably the first time the _entire_ team is on site _together_ , while he acknowledges that today is possibly the best day to troll him a very late and unexpected birthday surprise, he really wishes that they hadn’t gone through the trouble. He is aware that they are all _exhausted_ from their last assignment; his birthday had been weeks ago. Sure, they genuinely try to celebrate the little things, they always do try to make him feel like he’s home, which he is infinitely grateful for. And he solely blames Steve for starting the stupid tradition to begin with. After all, it had been difficult for the team to pull this off during his actual birthday when he had been stuck with Tony because of that goddamn spell.

And now here is, trying to focus on opening the box, with that stupid hat on his head, feeling a little too much like a show-pony. Tony is also still staring at him, looking a little amused, eyes on the stupid hat and it’s fluffy yellow tip.

“Nice hat.” Tony says, dimples hollowing as he tries to suppress what Bucky knows is an ear to ear grin. Why wouldn’t he? The Winter Soldier had _canary-yellow_ a party hat on.

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbles, managing to sound passively human, considering what a nervous and surprised shit-storm he is from within. The party, he can handle. The surprise, no problem. The presents and some embarrassing trinkets, sure. But what he can’t handle, what he can’t seem to _process_ is the fact that Tony is _present_ in said party.

Looking real nice and real swell.

God, he had assholes for teammates. He really does.

They’re all pointedly not looking in their direction, puttering about with their food and arguing over the barbeque sauce, that apparently, for a quantity of over two hundred nuggets, there are only four small containers.

“Takes special talent to pull off yellow faux fur. I’m impressed.” Tony says, nodding.

“Hashtag, trendy.” Bucky responds, and _startles_ when Tony _bursts_ out _laughing_ , just as he pops the box open and catches sight of Tony’s nose wrinkling, that strange dorky sound rippling past his exposed throat as he claps his hand in amusement and then forms a fist over his mouth, like he’s trying to contain the laughter that’s still making his shoulder quake.

And Bucky is _staring_. Shamelessly staring, god, he hates his team, he is starting to really dislike _Steve_ , too. Which is an unfair emotion towards his friend because Bucky is very aware of just how _painful_ this must be for him, to see Tony so close, and yet so far, because Steve may look like he’s fine, may look like he’s got his shit together, which he mostly does. But Bucky knows him. He knows that the ache and the yearning doesn’t exactly go away very easily (if ever), that distance really does make the heart more fond. The problem is that Steve is far too kind, far too giving, far too caring, and that is possibly the reason the invitation had been extended to Tony in the first place. Bucky _knows_ that Steve would never put himself first before others, and that is the exact reason why Steve is playing his Captain-Rogers card as opposed to simply being Steve the moment Tony had walked in and had shook hands with everyone. It is also probably the reason why no one is daring to ask for Steve’s share of the barbeque sauce either as he pretty much goes through an inhumane amount of chicken nuggets that Bucky is wondering if he’s even chewing the damn thing at all or just blindly swallowing.

The entire affair is a sordid mess.

Bucky finds himself staring at a wrist watch that looks far too small for a box this big. It isn’t until the hologram instructions appear that he realizes exactly what it is. The watch in place looks nothing more than a fancy sports watch, like that thing Bucky keeps seeing on billboards by Bucherer or Piaget. The holographic instructions however, tell him that it’s a gauntlet disguised as a watch for his _right_ hand. Kind of like the thing Tony always had on himself, the very think that Bucky _knows_ can be very disorienting when you’re in killing machine mode. Tony is talking again, saying something or the other about how it doesn’t hurt to have more fire power on hand, just in case.

And it dawns on Bucky how the genuine effort he had put into putting his little crush and attraction and half-formed wet dreams of the object of his desires, affection and everything else in between had pretty much flown out the window. Bucky had been good. He had been real good. After the two weeks had been over and Tony had gone back to his regular schedule and consultant status, Bucky had actively spent the rest of the days that had followed focused on training and his assignments and pointedly _not_ thinking about Tony while conscious. Of course, distance makes the heart fonder because while had smothered and choked the little part of him that _thrives_ in everything that is Tony Stark, his subconscious had reigned free during the short periods where Bucky does manage to catch some sleep.

Bucky can now say without a shred of doubt that he is tired of missing the mild scent of musk and tea tree. That he is tired of cold showers. That he is tired of feeling the weight of his arousal and need in his hands and feeling like he’s twelve again, when he is anything but.

He’s still having a hard time trying to figure out his ‘ _thing’._ His therapist, Nadia, says that everyone had a _thing_ and that he should work on self-re-discovery, self-acceptance and finding that _thing_ that everyone had for themselves.

Damnit, he had been doing good too. He had been cooking, which is more of Vision’s _thing,_ but well, Bucky figures, sharing is caring, and maybe cooking can be his thing too.

Except the one time had cooked for Tony, had turned into a kitchen-thing and a Tony-thing and now all he cooks is soup because Tony had said his soup is great!

Goddamnit.

Tony is looking at him with a bit of a frown, no longer talking and crossing his arms in what looks like a self-conscious and slightly defensive posture. Bucky blinks and realizes he had not been listening to a _word_ Tony had said, doesn’t even know what the fuck he had asked if Tony had asked anything at all. In a blind panic that looks so put together, Bucky sets the box down and puts the watch on, thinks to himself that it looks quite good on his wrist, the black titanium finish a nice touch and would easily go with any of his field gear. He actives the gauntlet, watches metal cover up his hand and make it look like he’s wearing fingerless gloves and well, isn’t that something?

When he looks up from his hand, Bucky feels instant _relief_ when Tony’s posture drops to something more relaxed and less defensive. There’s a telltale sign of a smile lingering on the corners of Tony’s lips, lips that Bucky finds himself _staring_ at. Bucky knows how he looks like when he stares at things. HYDRA had managed to dehumanize the majority of his facial muscles and if he’s being humble, Bucky knows he’s got a mean resting-bitch-face these days that the public still finds him too aloof, too distant, too machine-like and too blank-faced. Bucky is so good at hiding a good chunk of his emotion, that really, he tells himself he needs to stop _staring_ , he needs to just open his mouth and talk about the weather or something equally abysmal like that because no one likes being stared at and he’s got a good dose of the creepy-murderer factor in the staring department. Except he can’t stop staring _now_ because all he’s suddenly thinking off is that night in the kitchen apartment _weeks ago_ , when he had picked Tony off the floor and slammed him back and up against the kitchen counter, when he had tasted like mint gum, expensive bourbon and something a little sweeter, a little heady and god, those lips had been ridiculously soft. The beard is a trick, a distraction, and a bed of sharp thorns safeguarding something so heady-inducing and far more delicate.

Said lips pull back, and Bucky finds himself staring at teeth peeking out briefly.

“I take it you like it.” Tony says.

To which Bucky answers with a, “You have no idea.” While still staring like some sort of hedonistic idiot. Good god. Bucky finds himself wondering if he had really said that thing out loud.

To save himself, he promptly then asks if Tony would like _a_ chicken nugget. And prompty realizes what a dumbass question it is to begin with because who the hell offers _anyone_ just _one_ chicken nugget? In fact, who even _asks_ that a birthday party?

Clint comes by with a can of beer just before the rest of Bucky’s brain can catch up and say something even stupider. Bucky watches as Clint pushes a can of beer into Tony’s hands, swings an arm over his shoulder and drags him away towards the pizza boxes, talking about the last mission and his thoughts on the newly built and developed quinjet.

Never, _ever,_ had Bucky felt more relief than he had in that moment.

In a show of brave composure, Bucky had put the box and watch away, taken an entire pizza box and engages himself in a conversation about Burrito lunch bowls with Vision in the far corner of the room, and how Wanda is encouraging him to start his own video-blogging channel. At least, this way, he can look like a demon possessed serial killer from the far corner of the room, staring at Tony make small talk with the rest of the team with a safe distance of twenty feet between them. At least this way, he can watch Steve engage with Tony and remind himself that feeling this way, feeling this attraction and wanting to run his tongue all over the column of Tony’s throat, is _wrong_. That Tony isn’t his to begin with, that there is still hope for Steve to find his happiness, because things are getting better right?

Right.

Tony is now eating a fucking hotdog.

And Bucky is aware he’s staring like a hungry pokerfaced idiot.

Fuck his entire goddamn life. And everything after it. There had to be a way to file a restraining order on something as deadly and problem inducing like Tony-Stark-eating-food.

Tony looks up from across the room as he crumples the grease paper and winks at him. Bucky startles _so_ hard that he jerks and knocks the plate of food out of Vision’s hand, which topples to the side and sends the whole mess flying onto Wanda, who then gets a shirt full of ketchup and barbeque and a nugget in her glass of soda.

Bucky begins to apologize, curses as he tries to hand over napkins to Wanda and Vision,  still apologizing the entire way as he cleans up the mess on the floor and picks up the fallen plate and food. Vision and Wanda tries to reassure him that there’s no foul done, that it’s okay, that they’re okay. They’re all crowding over the spilt food on the floor that when Bucky stands up fast to get more napkins, he feels his head connect with another plate and makes a bigger mess. Scott is staring at him with his mouth hanging open, as a trail of chicken nuggets falls on the floor and god, Bucky needs a fucking hobby.

“Oh, man,” Scott says, looking at his nuggets that are now on the floor. “Those were the last ones.”

“Sorry.” Bucky mutters, and starts picking them up. “I’ll uh – go get more.”

Exiting the compound and borrowing Steve’s motorcycle in a quest to get more nuggets had to be the _smartest_ thing Bucky had done the entire night. Seriously, why didn’t he think of this earlier?

 

TBC

 


	2. The One With the Magic Spells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Might have missed some shit.

The funny and convenient thing about Bucky’s self- hate is that it only ever seems to come alive at the wee hours of four A.M. It is in those short but feels like forever hours that he finds himself lying awake in bed thinking of all the things he had not been able to do the right, all the way from the beginning when he had made his sisters cry by being a brat, right until the present when he still feels the blood dripping down his fingers, warm and sticky and thick. After all, the whole damn world knows that insomnia best accompaniments are a warm glass of regret and a cookie plate of depression and self-loathing. And Bucky loves his cookies, he thrives in them, consumes them with nothing short of gluttony during those particular hours until the first rays of the sun begins to peek over the horizon. The only reason Bucky remains unaffected by the vitriol that had come his way during the _entire_ pardon shebang is because there is no way the public, the surviving victims (however _small_ ),  and whoever else had been against pardoning the Winter Soldier is because there is no way they could hate him more than he hates himself.

His vomit of self-hating thoughts would only remain contained to a certain portion of the day and sometimes, if things get really rough, it may bleed out into the later parts of his day.

That is, Bucky realizes, until he had decided to be a goddamn boy-scout and attempt to get more birthday nuggets for his voracious teammates.

Bucky had never in his life felt more self-hate than the very moment he had stepped into a diner he had found who miraculously, had nuggets on the menu and were willing to cook up their entire inventory if need be. Bucky even remembers the exact moment the hate had slammed down upon him, because this is how it had started:

He had been pulling out his wallet, ready to shove the entire thing over in exchange for said nuggets when the diner rumbled under his feet. One would think that with the amount of aliens and portals that had been popping all over the world since Thanos freaking take-over-extravaganza, one would be used to aliens, foreign weaponry and abilities, and the worst of it, _magic_. These aliens had been quite docile looking too, something that resembled little beige puffs with large beady eyes, with what had looked like moth wings on its back. Bucky barely gets a moment to realize that he had left the compound stupidly unarmed, save for the watch on his wrist and his own metal arm – fucking stupid.

Standard operating procedures states than in a case of sudden impromptu invasions, you don’t stand there and try to solve it yourself, you call for back up. Which Bucky does the moment he gets a face full of yellow bad bananas smelling gas that the alien creature had _squeaked_ onto his face and the entire diner staff (which, later on, thank god, had only been three – saves a lot of explaining to do to the public). The creatures sound like a dog’s chew-toy and are relatively harmless once Bucky manages to choke the smell of bad banana out of his throat lungs and smacked the offending creature with a tray. It had bounced of the wall like a kicked soccer ball, ricocheting and breaking glass.

By the time Bucky actually manages to make call and get back up – because, well, _aliens –_ Strange and his team had already arrived and had managed to contain the mess in exactly eight minutes.

Eight minutes later and Bucky can still taste that horrid bad banana gas at the back of his throat. Strange lingers to check on the rest of the diner staff, and Bucky watches him as he informs the team that the crisis has been alleviated over the phone, that he’ll be back as soon as Strange is done, all the while watching patrons turn as pale as white paper as Strange seems to push something out of them that they can’t really see. Bucky watches as they go from nauseated to as fit as a fiddle in minutes and then like they had not just experienced what the world is now calling portal-discrepancies, they resume preparing Bucky’s order while the counter staff begins sweeping up the broken glass.

“Well, if all our portal issues were this easy, I wouldn’t complain.” Strange says, _sighing_ as he takes a seat and waves Bucky over to check him as he asks for a cup of coffee.

Bucky takes a seat on one of the stools and watches as Strange places a firm hand on his sternum and feels an invisible force _push_ something past his spine. Bucky feels a little displaced for a few seconds, but the feeling disappears eventually and instead of having the taste of bad bananas in the back of his throat, Bucky now tastes something chemically sweet, like soda gone bad.

It’s not as unpleasant.

“The after tastes goes, right?” Bucky asks, clearing his throat once as he shakes his head at the waitress when she asks if he wants coffee too.

Strange takes a sip from his cup and hums, “The sourness eventually fades, yes. They’re harmless creatures, mostly uses condensed energy to form gas that stuns their predators, kind of leaving them in a dazed state as they make their escape –“

“It’s not sour.” Bucky says, frowning and he _knows –_ boy does he fucking _know –_ that when Strange goes _quiet_ , it isn’t a good thing. “It’s sweet. Like Mountain Dew past its expiry date.”

Strange is careful to not say anything, opting instead to take a sip from his cup. “That is strange.”

“Should I be worried?” Bucky asks, and feels irritation _flare_ when Strange makes a dismissive noise. “Because my last run in with magic wasn’t exactly _very convenient_.”

The words had come out a little too sharp, a little to raw and a little too candid for Bucky’s comfort. Strange must have noticed the shift too because he’s watching Bucky over the rim of his cup as his empties it. Bucky’s thoughts don’t linger too much on the subject of his brutal honesty on the matter because the waitress comes with two large bags of packed nuggets, steaming hot and with a generous portion of barbeque sauce. Bucky collects his change and stuffs his wallet back into his pocket just as Strange sets his empty cup down.

“I can’t say I have any experience with Super Soldiers reacting to a Fuefastua’s spell –“

“You made that up.” Bucky _blurts_ , and blinks.

“Made what up?” Strange asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Fuesfasta –“

“Fuesfastua.” Strange corrects.

“Do I look like I fucking _care_ , Strange? I’m asking _you_ : should I be worried, or _not_?” Bucky asks, unable to keep the grit off his tone.

Strange takes a little too long to respond. “How are you feeling right now?”

“Frustrated. Irritated by your lack of response. Confused because I did not need another run-in with a magical alien. I just wanted to buy chicken nuggets, all right?” Bucky answers and grabs the bags off the counter.

“All right,” Strange nods and tilts his head to the door of the diner, a silent gesture for Bucky to step out with him into the quiet and deserted parking lot. “Remind me again why you hate magic so much?”

Bucky cannot believe “Because the last time I was involved in your field of circus, I was forced to cohabitate and be physically and emotionally dependant on the last person who ever wants to have to anything to do with _me_. And the after effects, even after it was fucking lifted didn’t go away.”

“Which is…?”

“I’m in-love with Tony.” Bucky feels his mouth part in shock at the point-blank admission, at how easy and _honest_ the words had sounded like rolling off his tongue. The bags he is hold fall to the ground with a loud rustle and Bucky feels his hands come up to his mouth, feeling around it for something foreign, and trying to swallow and wash away the sharp taste of the noxiously sweet _shit_ that’s coating his entire mouth.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Green.” Bucky answers, and nothing about it feels unnatural. He looks at Strange who is also looking back at him with eyes as wide as saucers, surprise evident on his well-groomed features.

“Do you even like chicken nuggets?” Strange prompts.

“No.”

Strange tilts his head. “Have you ever had a unicorn frappe?”

“Stop making shit up, Strange. What the fuck is a unicorn frappe?” Bucky _growls_ and _glares_.

“What’s the worst thing HYDRA has ever done to you?” Strange asks and Bucky feels his stomach drop to the core of the earth when he opens his mouth and answers the question he normally would have _never_ answered.

“The conditioning mind wipes and the hours of physical bondage and sex that follows after.” Bucky says, and feels _sick_. He watches as Strange’s face closes off, and he shakes his head, jaw tightening just as Bucky’s stomach turns. It hits him like a brick on the head.

“I need you to try _very hard_ to not answer my next question. Real _hard_.” Strange says, and looks him dead in the eye and asks, “Can you really call it sex?”

Bucky grits his teeth, can hear the enamels _grind_ in his ears as he tries his hard to not give the answer he knows Strange already knows. Bucky feels his willpower get overrun by something foreign, the sweetness at the back of his throat forcing him to gag, and before he can even stop it, he chokes out his answer. “No.”

The horror that follows after is nothing short of consuming. Bucky brings a hand to his mouth and covers it, feeling cold sweat break on his neck and temples, as he remembers what it feels like to comply with orders, to acquiesce and confirm his willingness to eliminate his targets. At least back then, it had felt like he had blinders on. He had not been able to lie, to resist or even speak any word against his handlers and commanders. Bucky isn’t sure which is worse: having no control and not being too aware, or having no control and being too hyperaware.

“You’ll be happy to know that these aren’t foreign creatures. We have some information on them and how to reverse spells. Which clearly didn’t work with you and effects have manifested differently.” Strange says. “Meanwhile, have Banner look at you and get a blood work done, see if there’s something he can chemically induce to minimize the effects. I’m going to take a strand of your hair and find a way to remedy this.”

Strange plucks a few hairs from the top of Bucky’s head and tucks it away; the action does not seem stalker-like at all whatsoever.

“What am I supposed to do?” Bucky asks, and it must have come out so pathetically because Strange actually looks at him with fucking pity, the jerk.

“I suggest being antisocial for at least the next twenty four hours.” Strange says, as he opens a portal.

“Thanks for the shitty help.” Bucky says, and supposes Strange is the bigger person when he doesn’t react to the too honest statement, disappearing into portal and leaving Bucky alone in the empty street with two bags of cooling greasy food.

Driving back to the compound feels like heading to the guillotine but Bucky’s heads back anyway and finds that the team is gathered around the kitchen, monitoring the city for more portals. They hoot when they see him, bombarding him with questions about the alien creatures. Questions that Bucky finds himself answering, or trying to answer as quickly as he can amidst surprised and bemused laughter at the alien description and queries about his well-being. The sweet taste at the back of his mouth gets so _sharp_ with each answer he belches out that it leaves him reeling and his mind spinning, his jaw aching as he tries to resist and resist talking because he doesn’t talk this much, he doesn’t even respond this much, in this much detail, with this much candid honesty.

And the next thing Bucky knows he is doubling over and letting nausea take over, emptying the nervousness tossing and turning in his stomach like a bad flu all over Tony’s sneakers.

The horror and mortification that _swallows_ Bucky whole then and there is so overwhelming that he feels the ground under him move, like he’s floating on torrid waters. The look of concern on Tony’s face does him in, and before Bucky knows what he’s doing, he _pushes_ Tony backwards with a little too much force, a little too much brutality that it sends him flying and toppling backwards, right against Steve and Sam and Natasha. The action had been instinct, done without much thought and Bucky realizes exactly what he had done and how he’s got Bruce’s slightly green tinged hand clamping firmly on his shoulder to hold him in position.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head and bring a hand to his temples, swiping down the thin layer of cold sweat and shaking his head, trying to clear it. “I’m so, _so_ sorry, Tony, _fuck._ ” Bucky curses and straightens.

It is then that he takes stalk of the defensive positions the team had taken. It is then that he notices how Steve had pretty much put himself in front of Tony, an arm holding him out of harm’s way, as Clint and Natasha both eyes all the possible weapon around the room. It is then that Bucky notices how Steve is looking at him, the very same way Steve had once looked at Tony when Tony had lost his mind in his grief all those years ago in Siberia, and had been trying to kill Bucky dead.

The _anger_ that follows comes unbidden.

The bitterness and regret and a thousand _I-fucking-told-you-I-am-not-worth-this_ comes swimming up to the surface and Bucky knows how it shows all over his face, how it lines his body with uncontrollable tension that he normally would have kept under wraps and hidden under lock and key. It is red hot and ugly and possibly border lining on _hate_ because _why the hell are you looking at me like all this is my fault?_

“Buck –“ Steve sounds unsure, _shaky_ , and far too alarmed as he tries to remain calm.

“Captain,” Bucky says, as he grounds his teeth again, feels them _crack_ , “Do you mind stepping outside for a second? I need to report this invasion and exactly what happened and suggest countermeasures. I’m going to need the team to stay clear of this.”

The formality of the delivery is what makes Steve stiffen and the team look at each other.

Bucky is never formal with Steve.

He’s never been formal with Steve, even during the worst of his days.

“Now?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. _Now_.” Bucky says and _shrugs_ his shoulder from under Bruce’s hand. 

He doesn’t look back as he stalks his way to The Office, away from prying eyes and all to aware of the temper that is trying to get a better hold of him.

Bucky knows that there is not way this conversation is _not_ going to get ugly.

God he hates magic.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LA LA LA - STICKING TO THE MAGIC THEME. IDEK.  
> TRYING THIS NEW THING WHERE I DON'T RIGHT OVER 7K CHAPTERS. LET'S SEE HOW LONG THAT LASTS HAHAHAHA


	3. The One with the Harsh Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. Possibly could have missed some shitty typos.

 

Bucky doesn’t have the highest opinion of himself when it comes to his own humanity. Given what he had done over the almost-millennium, he thinks he’s at the bottom of the barrel when it comes to that sort of measuring or amounting up to. So when it quite possibly takes _all_ of Bucky’s humanity to not freak the fuck out in the eight by eight space of the elevator that takes him to The Office, when he doesn’t punch holes or outright scream in rage like how he truly wants to and just let the monster in him go off the handle, he thinks he deserves a fucking award. The brightness and the elevator music had never bothered him before; now he wonders what in fuck’s name is the point of it all the ambiance when one simply stands in the small space for no more than a few seconds. There is nothing faulty about the elevator, no offense in the cool patterned reflective metal décor or the overhead lights. A part of him realizes that he is focusing on whatever it is that is in front of him and channeling his anger towards it.

Which in hindsight, it’s probably a good thing that the elevator only had to tolerate the steaming and seething form of the Winter Soldier for only a few seconds.

If Bucky is being honest with himself, he is, without a doubt, _bitter_.

He’s bitter because the deepest parts of him, the one that is the _guiltiest_ , doesn’t think he had deserved that pardon, that mankind is far too gentle in their judgment of him, regardless of all arguments made, justified and proof put forward before the judges. He is bitter because he thinks he _should_ be serving time in a cell, should be locked up and never allowed free again, which is a very small price to pay on his part. Most of all, he is bitter at himself for feeling bitter towards everything, for not getting the so-called cruel end of the stick, for getting the might-as-well-have-been a free-pass to life and forgiveness. His bitterness is a constant whisper and reminder of the good things, the ‘right’ things (as they say) that had come his way. Bucky can handle bitterness. It’s easier to compress and pack away and, really, there are days where he forgets about it completely. The team makes it easy on most days. Having that bitterness lingering at the back of his throat is a reminder to stay on his toes, to be hyper aware of those around him, to study, to learn, observe and act accordingly; it is Bucky’s fuel to do _better_ , to want to _be_ better because hey, maybe one day, when he can learn to be less bitter with the rights his own body and mind had been given for almost-free, maybe then he can call it an achievement and come full circle with the whole healing-and-learning-to-forgive-yourself-process.

Bitterness is _easy_.

It is the anger that Bucky doesn’t think he can handle.

Because when your teammates who are the very same people who try to accommodate you, who try to make you feel safe and home, give you this sense of oneness that you don’t think you’ve felt in what perceptually is a lifetime ago (the Howling Commandos is a shadow of a memory, barely whole anymore), when those teammates turn around and look at you like you’re a _murderer_ , like you going off would mean destruction and the fall of mankind, when _Steve_ – of _all_ fucking people – puts himself forward, turns his entire body into a shield, when Steve _looks_ at you like you would even hurt a hair on any member of the team, let alone _Tony,_ the very same people, the very same person who says you are _not_ a murderer, that it hadn’t been _you_ , that it can’t be you because _we know you better_ _and I know you all my life -_  well.

_Well._

The cancerous bitterness that gradually eats you up ends up morphing into rage.  
  
Rage doesn’t eat you up from the inside.

Rage burns it all clean and to _nothing_.

Rage is something Bucky apparently had little to no control over.

And the funny thing about it all is he’s _aware_ that he’s going off on something so trivial, that had it been anyone else on the team, he probably would have had a better grip on his reaction. Bucky is aware that he is losing all of his shits because he is being forced to feel things he honestly does not want to feel, if only because facing it equates to bashing himself with his metal fist right in the throat. A part of him, deep down, the part that no one will ever be made aware of, misses the days in the chair, the way an abuse is craved when that’s all you know and all you can get for _years_. A part of him craves the _silence_ , the thoughtlessness, the quiet buzz of a dark veil over his thoughts. A part of him just wants to be fucking left _alone_ , to just focus and not deal with people crowding all over him, of being dependant on people the way he had once been conditioned to be dependent on his handlers, and before that, his teammates and family. The entire fiasco that had led up to Leipzig still haunts him, when he had been _fine_ right before the false accusations had risen to the surface _._ He had been fucking _fine_. He’d probably look over his shoulder half the time or for the rest of his life, but he’d be on his own, like had had been for _years_ , without distractions, without fucking feelings, and being involved in _bullshit_ like spells that make you dependant on others or fucking spells that make you blurt out truths you have no desire of letting anyone fucking hear because it’s none of their goddamn fucking business.

The doors to The Office rattles on its hinges when he pushes them open with a little too much force, as he paces the space where the team conducts their briefings and meetings. Bucky feels like a caged animal, sneakers squeaking against the tile with each sharp turn.

The solution is crystal clear.

He needed time off the team, alone and for optimum and sure-fire results, without any exposure to Steve.

Especially Steve.

Steve, who walks into the office with seeming casualness and false calmness. Steve who closes the door the behind him and stands guarded by the table. Steve who comes alone except Bucky knows he’s never alone. The walls of the compound had eyes _everywhere_ and he’s sure that somewhere in the common room, the rest of the team are probably watching exactly what is going on because when you’re in a team of super spies and super soldiers and military personnel and geniuses, well, fuck privacy, right?

“What happened?” Steve asks, tone evenly neutral, belaying not a peep of the storm that Bucky can clearly _see_ in the depths of those blue-green eyes.

“Portals. But you already know that.” Bucky says, feeling that tightness in his jaw as the spell works its way in _forcing_ him to cough up the truth. He tells Steve exactly what happens, activating the voice-recording application on the digital keyboard, his verbal description of the Faesu-whatever-the-fuck Strange had called it incident being narrated onto an official report. A few sharp taps on the holographic keyboard, and Bucky had the report ready with only the spaces and boxes for submission, pending approval by his captain. He even goes as far as narrating exactly what the spell is, how it behaves,and how Strange is off with a few strands of his hair to figure a way why the counter measures had worked on civilians but had not worked on a super soldier.

“It sounds like you had that situation under the control. Good job on that front and taking care of the civilians and surrounding perimeters.” Steve says, and visibly clears his throat, his gaze momentarily averting elsewhere before focusing back on Bucky. Steve then taps on the smart table, initializes the report, initializes it and enters a TBD on the suggested treatment for injuries and trauma. He hits enter and the report goes through, the illuminated keyboard slowly dimming until it fades from the smart-table from inactivity. “I hear you and your unvoiced concerns with the spell. What do you want to do here, Buck?”

“I need the time off the team until this blows over.” Bucky says, his heart banging in his rib cage as he feels the compelling urge to respond with complete honesty.

“We can arrange a time off. That should not be an issue.” Steve nods, slow and measured as he crosses his arms.

“That includes you, Steve.” Bucky says.

Now _that_ catches Steve off-guard. He doesn’t react immediately, but Bucky can see how the tension _seeps_ deeper into his musculature, how that tension beings to coil as Steve carefully shifts his stance and places his hands seeks purchase on one of the chairs, fingers carefully flat against the Tempur curvatures of the chair’s backrest. Steve’s gaze doesn’t break away from Bucky, doesn’t flicker to the side because Bucky knows that look, knows it from a long time ago. This is Steve trying to remain calm in the face of something he thinks he’s about to lose. This is Steve trying to not panic and cave in to his emotions, as he wrestles it down and _forces_ his mind to look at things objectively and logically. This is Steve trying to gather all the facts _first_ , always putting others ahead of himself, when all he wants to do is stomp his feet and _demand_ answers.

Answers that he always doesn’t necessarily get because Steve doesn’t always necessarily asks.

Until he does.

“Can I ask why?” Steve asks, voice low, like he still isn’t sure if it’s his place to know.

“Because I am angry and irrational right now and I cannot trust I won’t go off the handle when you, of _all_ people, _you_ perceive me as a threat.” Bucky lets out a sardonic laugh. “And don’t I know just how fucking _stupid_ that sounds coming out of my goddamn mouth. You should be afraid. You _all_ should be worried!”

“I am not afraid of you, Buck. And you are _not_ a threat to me, or the team –“

“Oh yeah?” Bucky straightens and feels the tension snap cleanly in two as his posture cocks and rounds the table so that he’s walking towards Steve. “You look me in the eyes, Rogers, and tell me that you didn’t want to hold me down earlier. You look me in the fucking eye and tell me that it didn’t even cross your mind.” Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t even flinch, and the lack of a response confirms Bucky’s suspicions. If anything, the reaction is like gasoline being thrown into a raging fire. Bucky spreads his arms out to make a point and then turns around around press his hands against his face, the heels of his palms _digging_ into his eye sockets when all he wants to do is just claw them out in hopes that it’ll calm him down.

“I didn’t mean for it to look that way.” Steve says, and boy does he sound like embodies all the shame in the world.

“Like how you didn’t mean for Siberia to happen?”

The funny thing about the world is that they do not think that Captain America is capable of rage. They do not think that the gentleman and well-mannered Steve Rogers can embody the very definition of a raging and all-consuming fire. But Bucky had grown up with Steve, had seen him go red and _curse_ filthier than drunken sailors in the docks. Bucky knows exactly what lies underneath all the good grace and boy-next-door charm and polite etiquette. Underneath it is a boy who had been denied a lot of things just for being weak and small, and then had gotten them all in a blink of an eye. Steve’s roots may be the only thing keeping his head straight in a world that they had bled, suffered and died for, only to realize that whatever freedom they had all sacrificed so much for stands barely recognizable, if not completely foreign.

This is a boy who had learned to swallow _all the time_ , even when he dares speak out loud.

“Watch your goddamn mouth, Buck.” Steve says, teeth bared as he inhales through his nose quite sharply. “Keep _him_ out of this.”

“ _Why_?” Bucky asks, turning around and standing in the wake of the flushed rage rendering Steve’s face barely recognizable. “Just a few minutes ago you _were_ ready to stand between him and _me_ – as you goddamn should. I told you back then I didn’t think I was worth _all this_. I still _don’t_. Are you starting to agree _now_?”

Steve actually tries to calm himself down. Bucky watches as Steve genuinely fucking _tries_ to defuse the situation and if anything, it pisses him off.

“Look. I know you’re on edge about this goddamn spell. I know that having no control or say in how you respond is just about as good as having HYDRA in your head all over again – no, _I get it_ , all right? You don’t deserve this anymore than the next person and if it’s time off you want, if it’s isolation, then we’ll find a way - _I’ll_ find a way to give that to you. You’ve been doing incredibly well, and no matter what anyone says, the fact remains that you were not in your right mind when everything in the past seventy years –“

“ _They’re my hands!”_ Bucky’s voice cuts through the entire office, raw and gritty, gravel in his throat as the pressure of his rage explodes all over his sinuses and he sees _red_ in front of him. “ _They’re. My. Goddamn. Hands. What_ part of that do you just fucking _refuse_ to _accept_?”

“ _Because I know you_!” Steve’s voice cuts right back, equally thick and gritty if not louder.

“No, Steve, you knew a shadow of me from a long time ago. You knew the goddamn _kid_ who thought serving a war was his ticket to glory, respect, ambition and some form of wealth just so that he could help his family! That boy is gone!  He’s been gone since the moment they sawed my arm off, and if there was anything left, it sure as hell didn’t stick around with every cradle, every elderly, every womb and _infant_ I had to get rid of! So you can say it wasn’t me all you like; it’s not going to change the fact that _I still did it!_ Howard, Steve! He was your fucking friend too! _I did that!_ ”

“You’re wrong.” Steve says, shaking his head.

“Now you’re just being _unreasonable!”_ Bucky throws his hands up.

“You’re wrong because you don’t see what I see. What we all _see_. You may think Bucky is gone, and maybe a good chunk of him really and truly is. When I chose to save you, I wasn’t expecting to get my best friend back. I never expected it to go back to the way things were back then! I’m not a fucking idiot!” Steve’s voice is loud, sharp and the very thing not a lot of people would get to see. A part of Bucky wonders if anyone on the team had even been on the receiving end of something like this; he wonders if Tony even knows about this side of Steve. “Nobody comes out of whatever the _hell_ HYDRA puts you through intact. _No body!_ But you – you don’t see what I see when you talk to Vision about – about fucking recipes or the Food Network! Or how you help Spiderman and give him combat tips to save his fucking neck because _you fucking give a damn!_ Or – or how you administer First Aid on Clint or Sam _immediately_ or how you’re the first to cover for the rest of the team, _without even thinking!_ Or how you still got my back even after everything! I see the way you _look_ at Tony! I see the _love_ you have for him! That part of you, however small, was never destroyed or taken away and that is why you were worth fucking saving! Even at your _worst, let me remind you that_ _you still pulled me out of the goddamn river!_ ” The chair under Steve’s hands goes _flying_ across the room, smacking into the glass with so much force that the glass cracks and turns white into a spread of a billion webs. It doesn’t crash to the floor in a mess but the reverberating silence after Steve’s outburst is just as loud. “Was I supposed to just _leave you?_ Look away? You sure as hell couldn’t when HYDRA had your head in a fucking blender! How in god’s name did you even _think_ I’d be able to look the other way when I had full agency of my own thoughts? _How?_ ”

“And yet here we are with losses more than gain and walking on eggshells!” Bucky says, gesturing to the room.

“And maybe we always will be! Or I certainly will be!” Steve says, pressing both hands to his chest, gesturing to himself. “You think it’s easy for me making the decision I made? Sticking to it? Gambling with everything that I held dear? My decisions certainly weren’t perfect, they were pretty disastrous! They happened, they were made and there’s not a day that goes by where I wish with everything that I am and have in me that I’ve done things better and differently. That I wish I had tried harder, that I knew _better_ , or was _capable_ of saving not just my best friend but the man that I love. That if I had been just a little braver and less of a _coward_ –“ Steve stops short, ducking his head and sucking lungful after lungful of air.

“Say it.” Bucky dares. “You say what you wanna say, Rogers – “

“What? That I wish I never lost _him_? This isn’t even about the fucking spell, is it?” Steve shakes his head, and takes a step back, and huffs an exhale, bringing a hand to his mouth and stifling the vicious curse that slides out of his tongue. “Goddamnit, this is about – _Jesus_.”

And this is where Bucky feels his insides turn to _ice_. This is where anger makes a sharp dive, succumbing to the pull of gravity. Bucky feels the fight leave him almost immediately, leaving in its wake a spread of shame and regret and the overall feeling of weakness that he seems to be so intimate with these days. In hindsight, he supposes he should be slightly comforted by the fact that Steve’s shoulders slump too, larger hands that had once been so bony that half the time, it shook like a leaf in a stormy breeze. Bucky looks around The Office, at the fallen chair and almost white yet to collapse glass panel. He looks at his own trembling hands and Steve’s slumping figure, looking more like the boy who had been told no over and over again all those years ago than the icon the world is so proud of and loves.

Bucky shakes his head and feels his head spin with the ashy remains of his temper. “I’m sorry.” He says, voice thicker still with gravel. “I’m sorry, Steve –“

“I need to say something.” Steve says, swallowing and holding a hand out.

“No, you don’t.”

“Just let me say this to you because I’m only ever going to say it once for you to understand.” Steve shakes his head. “You’re not just my best friend. You’re _family_. And even if there is a tiny part of me that regrets or act or show like I may have second thoughts in choosing to stand up for you and by you, I certainly don’t mean harm or offense. I got your back, till the end of the line, no matter what. I’m going to be here for you. Whatever you need to recover from this or whatever else in the future, I will help you, and I will fight for it _for you_. You want the team to stay away from you, I’ll tell them. But I cannot stop them. They care for you just as much as I care for you. And this thing you got with Tony…” Steve tapers off, blinking rapidly before he ploughs on, his voice _cracking_. “I fell in love with Tony the moment I realized how well we work together all those years ago, during the Battle of New York. He is the most amazing and most beautiful, the bravest and _kindest_ man I’ve ever met and somehow, he chose me. But how I loved him _then_ , it’s _nothing_ compared to how I love him _now_. Buck,” Steve shrugs, like he’s helpless and unsure of what to do with himself. “I love him with everything inside of me. And I lost him. He filled the pits in me that I thought I could _never_ fill. I love him so, _so_ _much_ , that I just want him to be _happy_ , even if that happy no longer includes _me_.” Steve shrugs again, because what else can he do. “And I lost him because of my own short comings. I gotta live with that. I gotta – I gotta look at him every day and live with this – this _thing_ inside me that _hurts_ and I got no one to blame but myself. I can pray and _wish_ and _hope_ he’ll take me back, that he’ll forgive me. But you know what? I don’t deserve that. And if he can be happy with _you,_ if it’s _you_ , then I can make peace with that because – Buck, you’re – you’re my brother in everything but blood. I cannot think of a better person to – to…”

Bucky doesn’t know if Steve says the words he does in an attempt to convince Bucky or to convince himself. But there is no lie or malice in the words, no hidden subtext or double edged cutting words that may mean something else. This is Steve with all his ugly wounds and bruises, all his imperfections and the weight of his age and mistakes opening up to the person he trusts,  just like how Bucky had revealed the weakest parts of him in his rage earlier.

“I can’t.” Bucky admits, and shakes his head. “I can’t, Steve, I can’t –“

“You can; you already _have_.” Steve gestures to the room. “Buck, I don’t hate you for loving him. I can’t. Because I _understand_. But I don’t always get what I want no matter how much I want it, never did back then and that hasn’t changed _now_. Tony was never mine to give away because I threw that very right out the fucking window when I _lied_ to him. But if he _was_ , by _god_ if he still was, trust me, I would fight for him, even if it meant going against you.” Steve stands straighter now, fists on his sides and chin up. “I would _never_ give him up, not even to _you_.”

Bucky knows he should take a step back, that he should at least hesitate if not flinch, in the wake of Steve’s determination and honesty.

He doesn’t.

“You gave him up when you picked me.” Bucky says, and looks around them, calmer. “So I’m asking you again; was I worth it?”

This time Steve hesitates.

This time Steve looks away, pain visible on his face, because this Steve is the real one, hidden under layers of muscle and brawn and patriotic smile. This is the Steve that had looked upon Bucky with hidden envy after he had gotten 4F after 4F, after trying so hard while Bucky gets shipped off to Europe. This is Steve who had stood in Bucky’s shadow, had been too small but had wanted to be bigger and better, had wanted so many things too, but well, no one really gets everything right?

“Yes.” Steve says, too slow, too late.

And Bucky sneers at the response, wants to plant his fist right in the middle of Steve’s fucking face for even _daring_ to lie to him after _all_ that.

“ _Fucking liar_.” Bucky says as he side steps and walks right out of the room, bypassing the peanut gallery of a team who had dared not step more than a foot beyond the elevator lobby, possibly a response to the glass shattering when an alarm somewhere had tripped in warning.

If he sees the ashy look on all their faces, if he sees the pain that Tony that is all over Tony’s face, Bucky pretends not to notice as he takes the stairs and leaves everything behind him to lick his wounds and get on Strange’s case to fucking figure this mess out before it gets uglier than it already is.

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T____T
> 
> I HATE ME SOMETIMES.


	4. The one with the bread and ham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. Possibly could have missed some shitty typos.

Licking his wounds takes form in him rearranging his room and packing a bag he had no intention taking out or using. At least not at the moment. Bucky had taken to scrubbing his connecting bathroom with a toothbrush and a bottle of vodka that he had gotten as a present on Christmas and until the bristles had come apart, and later, the handle of the toothbrush had snapped in half. Bucky had resorted to using a soft sponge to scrub in between the tiles, a useless and moot effort because the maintenance team is quite meticulous in maintaining the compound. Bucky had managed to keep himself occupied and  distracted for exactly half a day, only to find himself pacing the small space of his room until it feels like all four walls of his residence are closing in on him.

The email had come in early that morning, confirming that his leave has been granted. 

The call from Strange had come in around noon where he confirms that he is still looking into a work around but is yet to find a durable solution. 

Bucky had almost punched Strange in the face when the asshole had decided to pop out from a portal on the wall, asking for a few strands of his hair. If Bucky had been the man he was in the forties, he would have said something clever, maybe a little harsh on the ego and hit the guy anyway, because who the hell pops through walls, magic or no magic? It’s just rude!

But he is not the man he once had been from the forties and like a loser, had simply reached for the back of his head, ripped a strands without a flinch and handed the fistful of hair over, all this with him being as loud as a mute.

Strange had looked a touch concerned, because that tends to happen amongst humans including seemingly asshole-like-personas like Strange, when you work together to stave off an apocalypse. Strange is all aloof responses and arrogant gazes, but Bucky knows better. He and Tony gets along like two peas in a pod and the saying that birds of the same feather, flock together cannot be truer with these two. Deep down, under the inappropriate and sometimes callous and seemingly direct way of talking, Strange cares has a heart about as hard as freshly made meringue. The glance over his shoulder before he had stepped into the portal to wherever the fuck he had come from is about as close to caring one can expect from the wizard.

“If you need a place away from the noise, there’s a place in Kathmandu that I can take you to. You will not be questioned or disturbed there.”

Bucky had only nodded at the words and without preamble, Strange had disappeared along with his magical doorway.

Which is how Bucky finds himself in the common (and not so surprisingly, blissfully empty) kitchen, going through the pantry and all its ingredients as if he is a harried contestant in a Chopped episode; the kitchen smells noxiously sweet and spicy and smoky at the same time. 

When Nadia (his therapist that is secretly Mother Theresa) had suggested exploring avenues to channel his frustrations in a less destructive way, Bucky had taken to observing Vision in his attempts to learn the ways of the world. In hindsight, Vision is young and always learning, despite the wisdom that he possesses. Bucky still remembers how Vision had been trying to make gnocchi from scratch, something that Wanda had been apparently quite fond of, and in his attempts to perfect it, Bucky had found comfort in watching those colored hands knead and smooth out a dough and later on cut them to little pieces. Perfected or not, there had been no wastage in terms of ingredients because whatever that is made is almost always consumed by someone or the other. If the container remains unlabeled in the fridge, then it remains up for grabs. Bucky had seen no loss in attempting to learn a craft that isn’t associated with blood, guts, bullets, and his fists breaking and smashing things, which had lead him to spend his earlier months in said kitchen with Vision, first watching and then helping, and later on, after a suggestion from Natasha to tune into the Food Network, he had dared to cook on his own. 

The first thing that he had successfully made without any waste or accidents is a small slightly crooked birthday cake for Sam. 

With time, the crookedness had turned smooth, the extra salt mild, the overly spiced balanced and evened – there is comfort in the motions of handling food, of slicing perfectly even carrots or celery, or carving a flower from a fruit or vegetable for garnish.

Bucky’s time in the kitchen, if anything, can be blamed on Vision. 

Bucky also knows that his teammates will give him his space to the best of their ability. 

Which is why when he hears the slide of footsteps and the sound of a deep inhale, in the midst of him handling the deep fryer and the kitchen filling with the loud hiss of beer-battered fish hitting the hot oil, the first thing he does is grab the closest thing to him and chuck it towards person’s head. 

Bucky had been caught off guard, too absorbed in his cooking, his defenses being forced to rise up too fast too soon when he had been, as he mostly is, completely unguarded while cooking. 

There is something quite funny at watching a warm mini pizza smack with an audible sound against someone’s face, only to plop and fall on the ground. 

Bucky finds himself holding his breath and staring with his best poker face as Tony blinks sauce and still warm cheese from his nose and brow bone, bending down to pick up the fallen pizza and taking a bite off it without preamble, clearly observing the five second rule. Bucky looks like he’s not perturbed by the fact that he had just attacked a teammate with a freshly made mini pizza but deep down, his stomach is knotting, his knees feel weak and he may or may not be screaming so loudly in his head at what a fucking moron he is for throwing pizza at Tony’s face. 

Like what exactly had he hoped to achieve there? 

Pizza sure as hell isn’t going to stop an attacker.  
  
“Hmm, thanks.” Tony says, licking his fingers and reaching over for a paper towel to wipe the mess off his face. “Got any more?” He asks, seemingly unoffended as he makes a beeline for the sink, to wash his hands and face. Bucky doesn’t answer verbally but holds out the pile that had a small imitation of Mount Everest in mini pizza. Tony takes it without question and sits himself on a stool by island, picking one pizza after the other without a care. Tony doesn’t even seem to realize how Bucky is outright staring at him,  because one, Tony shouldn’t even be at the compound and two, why is he even here, didn’t he get the memo from Steve? “What else are you making?” Tony asks, gaze sweeping over the kitchen.

Bucky shrugs, and turns around to fish out his beer battered fish from the fryer. He plates a portion of it with the fries he had been making earlier and offers it to Tony, complete with a swirl of tartar sauce on the side. “Fish and chips?”

“Oooh,” Tony takes the plate and plows through it like a starved man.

It’s hard to get back into your cooking groove when the object of your affections, distraction, and heartache is in front of you going through everything you’ve made like a man on his last meal. Bucky feels something traitorously warm coil in his stomach when Tony finishes his portion of fish chips, nibbles on more pizza and then goes through a portion of the beef wellington and pigs in a blanket that is cooling on the rack. Tony is nursing a cup of coffee and nursing a food belly when Bucky finally finds his wits again and snaps back to reality.

“Why are you still here?” Bucky asks, with no intention of being harsh. Except the question comes out gruff and almost defensive.

“Initially? To talk to you.” Tony says, taking a sip of his coffee. “But you were distracting and you threw pizza on my face and well, pizza, so I got derailed there.” Tony shrugs.

“I didn’t think you’d still be in the compound. All things considered.” Bucky says, pulling the potholder off his flesh hand and hanging it back on its proper hook by the wall.

“Well, all things considered, I didn’t expect to be the object of the Brooklyn Boys’ apparently on going tug of war.” Tony says, tilting his head, clearly addressing the elephant in the room.

“You don’t walk on eggshells.” Bucky says after a while, feeling like there is no ground under his sneakers.

“Neither did you towards the end of our spell-bound time together. Did you forget?” Tony says, taking another sip of his coffee. “So!” Tony sets his cup down. “I hear you’ve asked for a leave of absence and that you’ve specifically requested to _not_ to be bothered by the team. I also understand that the spell you’ve been ensnared with forces you to speak the truth. I’m going to take advantage of that because flattering as it may be to be the ham between two quite delicious buttery thick bread, you gotta admit that this is a wee bit ridiculous.”

Bucky can only blink at that mental image, as the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand on edge and something very primal and territorial and hideous claws with the intent to _tear_ somewhere under his ribcage.

Clearly, he doesn’t share his things; how’s that for self-discovery? Nadia would be proud.

“Ham between the bread…” Bucky blinks again and feels his stomach turn at the idea of even _sharing_.

Huh.

“Yes, but see, I’d rather be on your bread.” Tony says, and demonstrates the gesture by slapping one palm against the other, mimicking the gesture of putting ham on a slice of bread.

The gesture makes something tingle somewhere in the base of Bucky’s spine, enough to make him shift his weight to his other leg in awkward and slightly uncomfortable but extremely flattered _glee_ at the idea that Tony would like to be the ham to his bread. On queue, the mental image that comes with it is enough to make the heat crawl up his neck and all the way up to the tips of his ears. Bucky ducks as he begins to carefully remove the now cooled pigs in a blanket from the rack and plate them properly. The gesture is meant to be grounding, is meant to give him some sort of refractory period to recover from the distracting glint in Tony’s eyes, the smell of his cologne and how for some reason, the yellow tie actually looks quite good on him, and yellow apparently, doesn’t look good on anyone. Bucky knows he’d look like a giant canary if he ever put on yellow.

It’s hard to think right when your attraction decides to go into over drive.

“You can’t call it sandwich if it’s only one bread, Tony.” Bucky points out, like it’s oh _so_ obvious.

“There’s this thing called an open faced sandwich. It’s kind of quite new, possibly came after your time, maybe, only one bread required, right at the bottom and all the good stuff happens on top.” Tony points out and Bucky snorts as he turns around to put the empty rack away. “You’re all I think about too, you know? If that even means anything.”

The rack falls with a bit of a loud clang into the sink as Bucky drops the tongs into it too with a little more force than necessary. “And Steve?”

“What about Steve?” Tony says, blinking and canting his head to one side. “We’ve made our choices, we’ve said our goodbyes. There is no and there will be no Steve and Tony. That’s over and has been over for two years.”

Bucky can feel his hackles rise in what he can acknowledge to be a defense mechanism. He turns and steps forward,  and placing his hands on the edge of the island, the only thing that is between him and Tony and feels tension coil along the length of his back and around his fists. “Do you think this is funny?”

“No.”

“Sure as hell sound like you do, pal.” Bucky mutters.

“Do I?” Tony says, soft and shrugging, a self-depreciating smile on his face. “I used to think that I’d never crawl out of the emotional disaster that was Steve like, _ever_. That I’d spend the rest of my life walking through the white noise that is Steve’s betrayal, Steve leaving me, Steve making a choice which apparently, stems from the fact he doesn’t know any better – he’s just another guy, after all. I was convinced that I’d live the rest of my life relearning to be alone, to remain angry and bitter like it’s a mission to save the world and maybe one day, I can actually say I love you and I forgive you, Steve. That was my plan. Not a great plan, but a plan the nonetheless. Except you _happened_ and – and then I didn’t have a plan.” Tony gestures a hand in Bucky’s direction. “One minute I was not okay and then I was because, well, of you.”

If anything, Bucky’s resting bitch face comes in handy in moments like this. Bucky is aware of just how deadpanned his facial muscles may seem to anyone looking, but they will never understand how his stomach has basically turned into a tumble drier on high speed. They will never understand how his head feels heavy with weirdly pleasantly vertigo, how he wants nothing more but to reach forward and feel the soft waves of dark hair card through his fingers, feel the heat of Tony’s visibly warming cheeks radiate into his palm. Tony looks away, looking about as vulnerable as the countless moments Bucky had witnessed during their small lock-down time together.

“I got a shot at you?” Bucky asks, and it comes out sound so stupidly small, like a peep from a newly hatched bird, all unsure.

“If you want to take it.” Tony says, shrugging, self-depreciating smile on his lips once more. There is a shy and boyishly charming warmth in the way he reaches up and rubs the back of his head. “I don’t have much, I’m a handful, I’m certainly not perfect, and more broken held together by cheap adhesive, but, you know, I just want to make that clear. That you know.” Tony shrugs. “I’m an open ham. For your bread.”

The silence that comes after that is _so_ loud that Bucky _swears_ he hears Tony’s toes curl in his shoes.

“I’m guessing you’re not opposed to having mayo between the ham and bread?” Bucky _attempts_. It’s a genuine attempt. Pathetic. But genuine.

(Because Tony resorts to sardonic or sometimes inappropriate humor to field off his insecurities; you know this.)

“I do enjoy squirting and spreading mayo on warm toasty bread, yes.” Tony nods, dimples hollowing just the tiniest bit as he flicks his gaze up the length of Bucky’s body, or whatever he can see from the other side of the island. “Mayo is delicious.”

“I know how you like your bread. But I dunno how you like your meat.” Bucky says, and shifts his weight once more when Tony’s grin pulls taut on his face and he looks like the devil personified; hot, sinful and ready to bring trouble.

“Easy.” Tony says, sliding off the stool and draining the rest of his coffee. “I like them thick, juicy, all-American and smothered in mayo.” The look he gives Bucky is enough to fuel his libido and nightly escapades with his hand for _years_. “We good and clear, James?”

“Solid.” Bucky croaks.

“Good. Coz I think you’re burning something.” Tony says, tipping his chin towards the oven.

Bucky turns to look and _curses_ as he attempts to save whatever is left of his muffins, only to find them cooked so thoroughly that the tops are about as hard as rock. Bucky feels a little betrayed and disappointed at the failure.; he had been looking forward to glazing what would have been incredibly fluffy and tarty-sweet lemon and cranberry muffins. He doesn’t think twice about tossing them into the trash, the disappointment expanding like a hot air balloon as they land with audible collective thumps. And when he looks up from where he’s setting the muffin trays down, when he sees how Tony is looking at him with a smile that looks distant and small, and a little vulnerable and accepting and almost all-seeing, Bucky feels something in him twist in apprehension. Not quite dangerous, not quite saddled with killing intent, but oddly small and insecure and almost a little too shy and unbecoming of either Sergeant Barnes or the Winter Soldier.

“What are you looking at?” Bucky says, a little defensive and a little unsure.

“I’m looking at you.” Tony says, a little soft and a little breathless.

“Yeah, well, I burn things.” Bucky says, clearing his throat and dropping the empty tray into the sink with an audible and partially frustrated clang.

“So do I. It’s not gonna stop me from thinking of you.” Tony says and it’s barely audible as he shuffles towards the plate of pigs in blanket and picks one up to pop into his mouth. “Call me,  maybe?”

“Isn’t that a one hit wonder?” Bucky quips.

And Tony bursts out laughing as he heads for the door, holding up a hand up in a wave as the high pitched and slightly dorky and breathless mirth keeps pouring out of his mouth, the sound echoing down the corridor and all the way down to the elevators.

Bucky stares at the tray in the sink and sucks in a deep breath.

If he’s going to do this, he’s going to want to do it right.

\--

Bucky is in the middle of reading dating advice and suggestions from an article he had found on tumblr when he gets walked in on by Sam and Clint. He had been so absorbed in reading suggestions for back up plans in case his approach doesn’t work that he blinks when he hears Clint make a stupid noise and chortle a little in his throat.

Clearly the fuck off and leave the soldier alone rule can only last about four days.

(They’re probably just checking in on you, though. They’re not assholes.)

“The hell are you reading, man?” Clint says, sounding a little wheezy.

“Dating advice.” Bucky deadpans.

“From tumblr.” Sam prompts.

“Seems pretty popular and sound.” Bucky taps the tablet to move on to the next page.

“Why are we looking at dating advice again?” Sam quips, making himself comfortable on the sofa and popping open a soda can.

“I wanna do right by Tony.” Bucky says, making his intentions loud and clear and leaving no room for misinterpretation of _any_ kind in the future.

“Oh. So that’s _really_ happening?” Sam asks, eyebrows going all the way up to his invisible hairline.

“is that problem?” Bucky asks, and watches as his two teammates exchanges looks and shrugs.

“Nope. So what do you got?” Clint asks, tilting his chin towards the tablet.

“If I ask Tony if he wants a kiss, and he freaks out, I should carry a bag of Hershey’s kisses for back up.” Bucky says, his eyebrows knitting because logically, it sounds great.

It also sounds quite stupid.

“That… is actually genius. Huh.” Sam says, blinking and looking like someone had just slapped with a live and wriggling squid. “I never thought of that. What else you got?”

“Uh,” Bucky looks at the tablet and backpedals a little bit to what he had thought had been quite sound advice as well. “If you text them asking them out on a date, and they end up saying huh or what, respond back in twenty four hours by saying that your phone was hacked.”

“That actually works.” Clint says, clapping his hands and pointing. “I can vouch for that!”

“I don’t know you.” Sam says, looking at Clint with his best and biggest hashtag-judging-you face.

“There are some posts saying that if a person can fit six books between their teeth, they’re the one.” Bucky tilts his head to the side. “I’m not sure I understand that.” Bucky watches as Sam and Clint dissolves into peels of hysterical laughter and frowns at them. Clint sticks his tongue against his chick and makes a fist by his mouth in gesture of a blowjob and then demonstrates a deep throating and ah, right. _Of course_. “Got it.”

“Look, Barnes, I don’t think it’s right you’re looking in the right places for dating advice. And uh, oh wow, yeah, no,” Sam says, as he cranes his head and glances at the Tumblr dating feed on Bucky’s tablet. “Doing something non-traditional on a date in the park like yelling at birds and digging a cool hole is really bad advice. And no, sending unsolicited dick pics is not the equivalent of a cat presenting you with a dead bird or mouse. And for fuck’s sake, don’t order a lettuce wedge on your first date, what the hell – who _writes_ these?”

“Look man, fuck that advice.” Clint says, and turns to face Bucky, squaring him off with a sharp gaze that is serious and all humor aside, as Sam chucks the tablet to the far corner of the couch. “Do you or do you not wanna fuck Tony Stark?”

Bucky _almost_ recoils at the crassness of the question but every bit of the soldier in him tenses up, urging and forcing him to _not_ be intimidated by this person. “Yes.”

“Do you or do you not feel emotional affection and attraction towards Tony Stark?” Clint asks again.

“I do.” Bucky answers, his spine about as rigid as board.

“So show him.” Clint shrugs. “Basics: flowers, chocolates or coffee, cute texts.”

Bucky blinks and rubs the back of his head in thought. This is a little trickier than he had initially thought it would be. His point of reference is always going to be the forties, where people asked a girl out to dinner and would then later take her dancing. Unfortunately, almost seventy years later, that kind of process or steps no longer applied. Or at least it doesn’t apply to the people and environment Bucky is currently in. He doesn’t remember thinking anyone would even be remotely interested in dancing when dancing now equates to gyrating against each other. If he is to gyrate, he’d rather rub his bread on Tony’s ham with a lot mayonnaise in between, so to speak.

“Cute texts?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, like, you know if you see him and he looking fine, you say, baby you look so fine and you stick in the heart eye emoji and the flame emoji right after it.” Sam answers.

“The number of flame emoji correlates to how fine he really is. Three being super-hot, two being okay and one being aww, you are adorable.”

Bucky can remember that.

“Oh and uh, don’t be a creeper and use the eggplant emoji when you’re just being casual. In fact, don’t use it unless you’re actually in the sack and you’ve reached that point in your soon to be relationship. Because that can be quite offensive and you do not want to step on anyone’s toes.” Sam warns. “Be a gentleman not a douche.”

Bucky blinks. “Eggplant?”

“Synonymous for dick.” Clint clarifies.

“Oh.” Bucky nods and stares at his phone, pulling out the emoji panel and staring the at the seemingly harmless eggplant.

“Peach is for ass, by the way.” Clint adds. “So try to be smart about that too.”

Bucky stares at the peach emoji and feels him _sigh_. This seems a lot more complicated and oddly _weird_. “All right.”

“You’ll be fine. As long as your honest, I think Stark should reciprocate.” Sam nods, and gives Bucky a firm and encouraging clap on the shoulder.

“Start with flowers. That’s the safest.” Clint says, managing to sound a little encouraging.

“I don’t think he likes flowers.” Bucky says, and watches Clint roll his eyes.

“Dude. It’s not about the flowers. It’s about the _message_ the flowers portray. You can say a lot depending on the arrangement, you know? And Tony is a smart guy; he’ll get it. So go with that.”

Bucky pauses and stares at his phone and rubs the back of his head. He texts Friday to ask where is Tony at the moment and gets a response that he is currently in DC and will be in DC for the next week. “Do you know a good florist in DC?”

“Oh, I know this app! Here, let me show you.” Sam picks the tablet and proceeds to demonstrate an application that allows the user to pick what flowers and meanings that best apply to what they have in mind.

It looks pretty easy and when Bucky manages to enter his credit card details, he finds himself wondering how to say I-can’t-wait-to-be-your-bread-to-your-ham in flower speak. So he goes the easy route and selects a arrangement of yellow and orange flowers which apparently, according to the application, translates to passionate thoughts. Just to make it a little less creepy and to not make Tony think that Bucky is only ever after his eggplant, he throws in a red camellias for a touch of you’re-a-flame-in-my-heart, and carnation for fascination. The payment takes no more than a minute and then there’s a little bicycle with spinning wheels and a message that blinks saying that his order has been received and will be delivered in two hours.

“Thanks.” Bucky says, sounding a little gruff and feeling a touch awkward if not outright shy.

“Any time, man.” Clint says, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Stark can be a dick but he’s good people.”

“Let us know if you need help. We’re here for you man.” Sam says, and like they had not disturbed Bucky at all.

The common room remains about as quiet as a ghost town after that short conversation.

Sure enough, some hours later, Bucky’s phone beeps and he sees a text from Tony.

Tony had sent him three eggplants, two fires and a heart with a thank you text at the end.

Bucky isn’t sure what to make of it, so he answers with a bread, a ham and what looks like a jar and a peach.

It takes exactly ten seconds for Tony to respond with a time and date on when he is going to be in New York with not one, not two but three fire emojis.

Bucky doesn’t remember being this excited in his _life_.

He tells himself to send Clint and Sam a fruit basket.

He had exactly forty eight hours to prepare what had to be the best date ever.

This is really happening.

Shit.

This is really happening.

Bucky stares at his phone and wonders exactly what he had done because he understands the gist of the emoji use but emojis are pictures and not words.

Bucky debates asking help from Sam and Clint, to ensure that he isn’t misreading this, before promptly deciding that he’s going to wing it and do his own research instead.

The next morning, Bucky buys a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Just in case.

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly floundering?

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno what I'm doing.


End file.
